Page 25 of Mrs. Merritt’s Remorse (Lord Dere’s Dependents #2)

New ways I must attempt, my groveling Name To raise aloft.

— Dryden, translation of Virgil, Georgics iii (1697)

One thing was certain: having occupied such a prominent and enduring position on the list of Mr. Egerton’s pastoral duties, Jane vowed she would never have call to appear there again.

There would be no more scandals.

She had been clear and public in her refusal of Mr. Beck, but even if the infuriating man was tempted to try his luck again, Jane would thwart him. She would refuse every invitation where he might be present. That failing, she would rope herself to another family member so he could never again inveigle to get her alone.

Furthermore, she would banish Mr. Egerton from her own heart and mind. For what was the use of his continuance there? He was still going to marry Miss Hynde eventually, and he viewed her, Jane Merritt, as simply one of the more troublesome members of his temporary flock. Pooh. A fig for Mr. Egerton!

If only her unruly thoughts would not keep straying to him. To how much she had been enjoying their unexpected conversation in the back garden. To the memory of his arms catching her, and the feel of his firm person between her and the stone terrace. To his playful handshake which had made her believe they might become friends. Only to have him then ruin it all! To call her his “pastoral duty,” and in such a tone!

It did not occur to her until many hours later, when she lay awake beside Sarah, that Mr. Egerton might have said what he said, and said it in the way he said it, as a kindness to her. That he might have read or guessed at her feelings in her blushes and her awkwardness and had then put her firmly in her place for her own safety.

Worse and worse and worse.

But all the more reason for her to set a brave face upon it.

And she would. She was three and twenty now. Not a child anymore. Not even who she had been a few years earlier.

Jane did not plan to avoid the curate as she avoided Mr. Beck, however. That would prove nothing, either to him or to herself. No. She must go about her business. Return to her usual activities, including teaching the parish school with Cassie, so that Philip Egerton would understand he was nobody in particular to her. He would think he had imagined her confession—if he had indeed imagined anything. She would be courteous and collected and completely, completely at ease.

And lastly, she would patch things up with Mrs. Dere. She would court the woman as assiduously as Frances had, cost her pride what it might. As Frances herself observed, one only had to make a grand effort to begin with, and then one might slack thereafter, with only occasional puffs to the woman’s importance.

Jane gave Mr. Egerton three days to make his promised efforts, and then she and Frances set out for Perryfield, deliberately passing the Tree Inn.

Sure enough, the postmistress Mrs. Lamb burst through the door into the yard with a pitcher of water which she dumped at haphazard on the nearest flowerpot. “Good morning, Mrs. Merritt, Miss Barstow! How nice to see you again, Mrs. Merritt. I see you are well.”

Jane decided to let that pass. “Thank you.”

“Do you suppose the Greenwood Hall party will return to Iffley soon?”

“I haven’t the least idea.”

“An interesting letter Mr. Beck will find when he returns…if he returns,” Mrs. Lamb said, with a lift of her eyebrows and a significant nod at Jane. But Jane could see Mr. Egerton had done his work for the nod was knowing, rather than insinuating. “The hand was not so fair, nor the spelling—‘Iffley’ with one ‘F,’ mind you! And Greenwood in two words.”

“Could you tell who—” began Frances, before an elbow in her midsection made her break off. Nimbly she resumed with, “Of course not. In any event, if I didn’t know better, I would suggest the letter came from our brother Gordon. His spelling is laughable at times. Good-bye, Mrs. Lamb. We go to call on the baron and Mrs. Dere.”

When they were out of earshot Frances said, “What a splendid spy Mrs. Lamb would make! It’s almost too bad about the peace, isn’t it, or we might suggest she be sent to France to send regular reports home. She would know what Napoleon was up to before he did himself.”

Wood the footman led them to the morning room at Perryfield where Mrs. Dere was at her correspondence, but the sound of their voices soon drew Lord Dere from his library to join them.

“Mrs. Merritt, I cannot tell you how glad I am to see you abroad again,” he beamed upon her. “Mr. Egerton explained all to us. Quite a conscientious young man. It is a great relief to have Mr. Beck away for the present, if he will persist in such misbehavior.”

From Mrs. Dere’s rigid posture, Jane knew there was still work to be done, but she had expected it. For Mrs. Dere to acknowledge Mr. Beck’s failings would entail acknowledging her own mistake in recommending the match—a bitter pill to swallow. But Jane was determined to gild the pill, if she could.

“I daresay, sir, if Mr. Beck had not heard such stories of me to begin with—stories which were all unfortunately true, he would not have tried the things he tried,” she murmured.

It was well done, and at this show of humility (accompanied by Frances’ most sorrowful look and regretful nodding) the matron unbent a fraction. “Yes, well,” she sniffed. “As the bard says, Mrs. Merritt, ‘The purest treasure mortal times afford is spotless reputation.’”

“Just so,” agreed Jane, tucking her hands beneath her so that she would not clench them. “I have learned too well that a spotted reputation is an invitation to further mischief. I—blame myself. Thoroughly.”

“Nonsense,” said Lord Dere roundly. “If a rogue forces his attentions uninvited on a young lady—be her reputation what it may—there is no excuse.”

“But Mr. Beck did make an honorable offer, however inadvisedly he went about it,” insisted Mrs. Dere. “A good marriage might save such a person. Why, I know any number of young men who were going astray or who had gone astray, who were then improved by a good marriage.”

Ordinarily such a pronouncement would have silenced the baron, but he was quite put out by Alexander Beck, and it gave him the courage on this occasion to disagree with the mistress of Perryfield. “That may be, Alice, but I am grateful it need not be our Mrs. Merritt plucking him back from the precipice.”

Much as Jane would have liked to hug him for this defense of her, she saw Mrs. Dere stiffening again and hastened to interpose. “Mrs. Dere, I did want to consult you. Because it will be quite awkward when the Greenwood party returns—if they return. What would you recommend, to make things smooth again?”

“I have thought on this,” she answered, somewhat pacified by this appeal, “and even discussed it with Mr. Egerton when he called. He said it was fortunate in the end that nobody at Greenwood Hall attends church, for there was one meeting avoided! But we must either all cut the man—cut the whole party—or we must arrange for some general occasion to be held the instant they return, in order for everything to be set on a new footing—one which is polite but distant. They must understand there will be no more private calls, nor private parties among us.”

Frances clapped her hands and voiced the eagerness Jane felt. “And? And, Mrs. Dere? Did you think of anything?”

“It was Mr. Egerton who did,” admitted Mrs. Dere. “He proposed a gathering at the church where all the pupils would give recitations—Bible verses, quotations, poetry. Even the parish pupils would participate, if you thought them capable, Mrs. Merritt. We would invite the congregation, but Mr. Beck would come, one imagines, to hear Archie Wilson.”

“But did Mr. Egerton think Archie Wilson could be brought to recite?” wondered Jane, remembering the little boy beneath the table.

“It hardly matters,” Mrs. Dere shrugged. “The point would be to get Mr. Beck there and to get past the initial awkwardness. If you approve, Mrs. Merritt, you and Frances had better go next to the rectory to work out the plan, for the Greenwood party may return any day, and it would be better if the invitation were sitting in the tray when they did.”

The idea of seeing Mr. Beck again was dreadful, but there was no avoiding it, and he could hardly bother her in a church. Whether Harry Barbary could be got to behave in church as well, however, Jane couldn’t say, but what could she do but approve the scheme? At least it would all be got over at once, and better to be thought a failed schoolteacher than a failed gentlewoman.

After staying a little longer to see the new books the baron had ordered and the latest specimen in his insect collection, Jane and Frances went on their way.

“There,” said Frances, as they proceeded arm in arm back the way they had come. “Doesn’t your heart feel lighter, to have got that over with? Mrs. Dere was almost reasonable. With a little more kneading and wearing down she’ll be as tender-hearted as the baron.”

Jane surprised her younger sister by stopping in the road to look full in her face. “Frances, thank you. If Mrs. Dere is almost reasonable, it’s because of your efforts these past few years. Della and I have helped wear her down with our misadventures, perhaps, but you have done all the good. The kneading and the buttering and the puffing up.”

“Goodness. You make her sound like a cottage loaf,” replied Frances, but Jane could see she was pleased to have her efforts recognized. They resumed walking, but after a few steps Jane stopped again.

“And Frances, forgive me, but I must ask: you don’t still care for Mr. Beck, do you?”

“Pooh!” said her sister, blushing and tugging on her again. “I never did care for him, Jane. I only liked him and thought him handsome, and that is not the same thing. It wasn’t as if I dreamed of running away with him.” But at that she gasped and covered her mouth. “Oh, Jane, I didn’t mean—you and Roger.”

But Jane waved this off, too glad to hear she need not be anxious for Frances. As for Roger Merritt—she would rather no one else knew how infrequently she thought of him anymore! She wasn’t a bit like her sister-in-law Sarah, sometimes still wistfully poring over their lost brother Sebastian’s letters, but then Sebastian Barstow had been a far worthier man than poor Roger.

“Still,” Frances rejoined, “it was a blow to my self-regard, to learn I could be put in a flutter by someone who turned out to be a cad. It meant I was no better than a Miss Hynde—except that I did not attack you out of jealousy. There is Miss Hynde, with a perfectly good man to marry—at least I assume Mr. Egerton wants to marry her—but she wanted Mr. Beck! It’s all quite discouraging. I plan to be much more sensible next time, however. I won’t pay a jot of attention to a fellow until I have subjected him to a thorough inspection in which he proves himself to be sensible, gentlemanly, and respected by all who know him.”

Suppressing a sigh, Jane thought this exactly described Mr. Egerton, but there was no time to do more than steel herself, for they had reached the churchyard. And even then she did not have the few steps to the rectory entrance for further preparation, for there stood the curate with the sexton outside the church, pointing up at one of the windows.

“Ah, Mrs. Merritt and Miss Barstow,” he said when the sexton trudged away, “what a pleasure to see you abroad.”

“Those were exactly Lord Dere’s words,” Frances laughed. “Did you all settle on them together?”

“Nothing of the kind!” But he colored and looked at Jane. “But…you have seen Lord Dere?”

“Yes. And Mrs. Dere and Mrs. Lamb, to boot,” said Jane with assumed calmness.

“And having seen Mrs. Lamb, that takes care of everyone else,” added Frances drolly.

“It is thanks to you, Mr. Egerton, that I have ventured out again,” Jane told him.

“Yes, well—I wanted to help, as you know. As we discussed.” He studied her, his lips parting once or twice, as if he wanted to say something but thought better of it. Then, with an effort, he turned to Frances. “Miss Barstow, I am sure your sister must have told you how I felt responsible for making a mountain out of a molehill. Well—not precisely a molehill, I suppose—bigger than that—but making a mountain out of a mountain lion, perhaps.”

Bemused by his uncharacteristic babbling, Frances answered, “Oh, I daresay the incident was already bigger than a mountain lion without your part in it,” she replied, trying to humor him. “What would you say to a Russian mammoth? You made a mountain out of a mammoth.”

“A mammoth, then. In any case, I apologized to your sister and have tried to set things right.”

“And so you have,” said Jane. “For which I thank you. But we seem to be talking in circles.”

“So we are. Circles.” He ran a finger under his neckcloth. “Right.”

What ails him? Jane wondered. In comparison to his discomfiture she was downright at ease! “In any event,” she tried again, “we have come by because Mrs. Dere shared your suggestion of holding a recital, and I heartily approve, although—are you certain you want to include the Cramthorpes and Harry Barbary in it?”

The practical question seemed to give him firmer ground to stand upon. “We had better, I think. Not only because I am certain you and Cassie (and you, Miss Barstow, on several occasions) have made excellent progress with them, but also because—if the parish pupils were not included—some others—might question why you chose to attend.”

“Ah,” breathed Jane. “I see. Yes. That makes sense.” Indeed, heaven forbid Mr. Beck think she came for no other reason than to see him again!

“So perhaps—just have them practice whatever you think them capable of. It needn’t be long. Something they already know which might be done right off, that we might announce the recital the instant the Greenwood party returns.”

For a few minutes they discussed possible pieces and a likely order for the program, and Frances went to wander among the headstones, humming absently.

It was not until she disappeared around the south side of the building that their conversation flagged and the first awkward little pause fell. Jane instantly stiffened in spite of herself. She blushed, fidgeted, and was about to declare her intention of going in search of Miss Egerton, when he blurted, “Mrs. Merritt—to return to our first topic, your thanks notwithstanding, I think when I left you at Iffley Cottage, you were not pleased with me.”

Oh, this wasn’t fair! The very last thing in the world she wanted to talk about was the blow it had been to her, to be called a “pastoral duty”! Doing so would only lead to a weakening in both her facade and her resolve, and Jane decided she would have none of it.

“Not a bit of it!” she therefore replied with determined brightness.

He straightened, plainly surprised by her energy. “Er—I am glad to hear it. Though I couldn’t help but think I might have offended you—”

“Offended me?” she interrupted with even brisker briskness. “Heavens, no! How could I possibly take offense, sir, when you have been so…charitable. That is to say, so industrious in wanting to set things straight. Zeal and charity! What more could be wanted in a curate?”

For whatever reason, her own zeal silenced him. He stood there, lips pressed together and brow darkened, and Jane, having so emphatically told him exactly how far and no farther she thought of him—hardly knew what to do next. An inexplicable urge to apologize—to comfort him—fleeted through her mind, but she stamped upon it, figuratively speaking, casting about for something else to say so they didn’t just stand there, but her mind was wiped clean as a slate. His wasn’t much better, and they might have stood there till world’s end if Polly hadn’t popped out of the rectory door with a carpet and willow beater.

Both giving themselves a shake, they began to speak over each other without either being much the wiser, but it had the happy result that Jane continued to the rectory and Mr. Egerton disappeared into the church.

“Did you see my brother?” was almost Cassie Egerton’s first speech, after the niceties had been dispensed with. “He set the boys at their lessons and then said he was going for a walk.”

“He’s over at the church,” said Jane. “And yes, we did.” Briefly she explained their morning calls. “I thanked him, Cassie, for you doubtless know his part in it all. And I spoke with him about the recital.”

Expecting her friend to have much to say about what the Cramthorpes and Harry Barbary could or could not be called upon to repeat before strangers from memory, Cassie only frowned in distraction. “He received a letter from my cousin Martha Cottrell. I was going to ask him if I might read it as well, but he locked himself in his library. I grant you, Martha’s letters are not generally thought delightful, but I could not help but be curious about Felicity…”

“Have you heard nothing since she returned to Cottrell Hall?” asked Jane.

“What? Oh—not really. Come, let’s go into the schoolroom and make our plans.”

In politeness they could not insist on pursuing the subject, but when Jane and Frances were walking home, Frances said, “You saw that, didn’t you? How Miss Egerton blushed and changed the subject about Miss Hynde? I’ll warrant they have heard something, but she is not at liberty to say. How frustrating! Surely it’s something to do with Mr. Egerton and Miss Hynde getting engaged, but we will have to wait and see. In the meantime, I am quite infected with curiosity!”